Nothin' But Troubleby Minx

Dallas, TexasThe Azteca Inn1999

“This is never going to work.”

Dean glanced away from the mirror over the bathroom sink where he was busy trying to straighten the black silk bowtie around his neck and cocked his head at Sam, a look of exasperation crossing his face.

“Professional escorts,” Dean noted smugly. He grinned and winked at himself in the mirror.

Sam just huffed. “Whatever,” he muttered. He stared down at the rented tuxedo he wore, his brows wrinkling in worry. “Dad’s gonna kill us.”

“Dad isn’t gonna find out.”

Sam shot Dean a withering look. “He always finds out.”

Dean shook his head. “Dude, he’s like a hundred miles away, in another state, at the moment. How’s he gonna find out?”

Sam shrugged, but refused to be swayed from his notion that their father was somehow omniscient enough to always know when his sons were about to get themselves into unnecessary trouble.

Dean gave himself one last satisfied look-over in the mirror and turned, exiting the cramped motel bathroom, nudging Sam aside with an elbow as he passed the younger boy leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

Dean plopped down onto the edge of the nearest bed and grabbed the pair of rented dress shoes he’d also picked up, along with the tux, from where they lay on top of the bedspread.

“Dad’s last phone message said he’s gonna be away for another week, probably, and you know he’d have taken this job if he was here, so what’s the problem?”

Sam let out a ragged sigh.

Their father had dumped them off at the Azteca Inn, a throwback to the glory days of the fifties with its turquoise and salmon pink art deco style, four days ago while he headed off alone to pursue a lead on their mother’s killer. He’d left them with the Impala, some cash, a credit card for emergencies, a cell phone and unfortunately, Dean’s amazing propensity for finding creative solutions to the boredom that tended to creep into their lives from time to time.

“I’m not even old enough to drink,” Sam challenged as he sat down next to Dean on the bed.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” Dean chuckled.

“That’s different, Dean. I mean, you and me snaking a couple of Dad’s beers once in awhile isn’t the same thing as posing as professional escorts and lying our way into a club opening with fake IDs,” Sam couldn’t help throwing another eye roll in at that.

It was Dean’s turn to shrug. “It’s for a good cause, Sammy,” he declared as he rose from the bed and grabbed up the Impala’s keys from the dresser next to the door. “Something or someone is offing people associated with that nightclub, and we need to put a stop to it. You know, family business, saving lives?”

“We don’t even know what’s doing the killing,” Sam insisted.

“No time to research,” Dean said. “The opening’s tonight. We’ll just have to think on our feet. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Dad’s usually with us though,” Sam said.

Dean stopped and turned around to face Sam, who was still firmly planted on the bed. “Dude, this is no time to pussy out on me -”

“I’m not pussying out!” Sam asserted, his face reddening.

Dean smiled. “Besides, I hear there’s s’posed to be a lot of famous people there tonight.”

“Like who?” Sam grumbled.

“Like the awesomely hot Miss Heather Locklear for one,” Dean replied with a leer. He began ticking the attendees off on his fingers. “Um, then there’s gonna be some Dallas football players…or are they basketball?…whichever, and the entire cast from Dawson’s Creek, for some reason.” Dean smiled slyly. “Oh yeah, and that chick from that one show, what is it? That teen witch show?”

Sam could be quite picky about what he liked to watch on TV when he actually had a choice, often leaning towards science shows or even worse, movies based off of stuffy British novels.

Nevertheless, Sam couldn’t fight the fact that, first and foremost, he was a teenage boy. A teenage boy with the raging hormones of a bull in rut, a lot of the time, Dean noted with glee. And that hormonal influence had, as of late, been focused primarily on a perky young blonde actress starring on a certain TV show that Sam would never otherwise even admit to watching, much less being a secret fan of.

It was one of Sam’s biggest shames and one of his most private indulgences to religiously catch Sabrina the Teenage Witch whenever it was on and they were within fifty feet of a television. Had the Winchesters had a permanent address for any length of time, Dean had no doubt in his mind that the wall over Sam’s bed would be covered with at least one provocative poster of Melissa Joan Hart.

Dean grinned and nodded. “Yup. Swear,” he said, making a crossing motion over his heart with a forefinger. He reached over and grabbed up the morning’s newspaper from the little round table that sat in the tiny breakfast nook and tossed it to Sam. “Check it out, man. It’s gonna be quite the par-tay.”

He was quick to duck the newspaper Sam threw at him as he headed out the door, laughing. Sam trailed eagerly behind him.

***********************

2:38 A.M.

The parking lot outside the nightclub, Recherche

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Dean angrily spat, as he hunched down in the front seat of the Impala. He fingered the ragged tear in his dress pants, swiping at the smear of blood oozing from his scraped knee. “Black shucks? Seriously?”

“Might’ve figured it out sooner if we’d done some research first,” Sam griped. “Or, you know, not spent the entire night collecting chick’s phone numbers.”

Dean tossed a sour look over the back of the seat at his brother. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying…” Sam’s voice tapered off at the rude glare Dean gave him.

“Yeah, I didn’t see you complaining any, Sam, when Monica what’s-her-name -”

“Melissa Joan Hart,” Sam corrected with a soft smile.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. When she asked you to keep her company in the VIP lounge, dude, so don’t talk to me about who wasn’t holding up their end of the job tonight, okay? Just zip it,” Dean said testily.

Sam shrugged, a private smile playing on his lips. He settled back, stretching his long legs out across the back seat and stared at his feet, wiggling the left one, now shoeless. He let his gaze travel out the far window to the empty parking lot behind the nightclub.

He could just make out the tattered lump of leather that had once been his shoe lying on its side near a rusty dumpster. One of the pony-sized black shucks was gnawing on the heel of it as if it was a rawhide chew. Could’ve been worse, Sam decided. His foot could still be in the shoe. They were lucky to have made it to the car in one piece.

He sat up and leaned over the back of the front seat to study Dean, who seemed engrossed, staring out the windshield at one of the other wild dogs. It sat on its massive haunches, less than a yard from the Impala, gleefully shredding Dean’s tuxedo jacket with its teeth, the long thin strips of black fabric fluttering from its jaws like macabre confetti. Dean’s cell phone peeked out from underneath one the creature’s giant forepaws, taunting him.

“There goes the deposit on the rentals,” Dean muttered gloomily.

“So, tell me again why we can’t just leave?” Sam inquired.

“Dude, for the last time, I’m not driving out of here on the rims!” Dean snapped. He swiveled around to face Sam. “Those’re custom jobs, Sam, they ain’t cheap and all I’d end up doing is bending the hell out of ‘em if I tried to drive out of here on two flat tires.”

He shot an angry look back at the five dogs surrounding the Impala. “Besides, it’s not like they’re gonna let us leave.”

The club opening had gone off without a hitch. Both he and Sam had had a great time hitting up the girls, playing the part of two handsome escorts, there as eye candy for the party, and enjoying the free beers that everyone seemed to press into their hands all night long. It wasn’t until all the partygoers had dispersed and the club sat silent and dark, that Dean had caught the first sinister growl coming from near the dumpsters out behind the building.

Once outside the safety of the nightclub, things had quickly gotten out of hand. Neither boy had counted on there being a full contingent of devil dogs – six of them - waiting in the shadows. As a result, the dogs had easily surrounded the two young hunters, outnumbering and outmaneuvering them. Dean and Sam had sprinted for their lives towards the Impala where the larger weapons were kept in the trunk, but had barely been able to make it into the car without being torn to ribbons.

Dean had managed to take out one of the dog’s with the 9mm he’d kept tucked into the back of his waistband, but it had taken the entire clip to bring the monster down, and Dean had left a few pieces of clothing and some skin behind as one of the other dogs had taken a swipe at him from behind. He’d made it to the car, breaking land speed records of all kinds, he was sure, and had hastily unlocked the doors before jumping inside the Impala in search of more ammo.

Sam hadn’t fared much better. He’d almost cried with relief when he’d discovered Dean had already unlocked the Impala’s doors because he didn’t think the ginormous slavering thing on his tail would be polite enough to wait while Sam attempted to pick the lock on the door.

He’d dived into the backseat, hands clawing for purchase on the slick leather seat to pull himself further inside the safety of the car, when one of the dogs had clamped down on his left foot, which was still hanging outside the open car door. Sam cursed his recent growth spurt that had added several inches to his legs, making him now too long to fit flat out along the seat. The dog tugged on Sam’s foot, trying to drag the teen back out of the car, but Dean had leapt over the back seat, almost landing on top of Sam, and began beating the creature in the face with his empty Glock until the dog let go of Sam, taking Sam’s shoe instead, as a prize. Dean had slammed the door shut, locked it, checked to make sure Sam was okay, and then had crawled back over into the front seat to huddle quietly and think.

The shucks had taken out their wrath on the car after that. A couple of the dogs had managed to puncture the two front tires with their razor-sharp fangs while the rest kept busy slamming against the Impala’s sides, clawing and howling to get at their prey. If they managed to get out of this mess alive, Dean was pretty certain his baby would require a new paint job. His dad was going to be pissed.

The thought made Dean burst into laughter for some odd reason, and he snorted uncontrollably until Sam’s nervous scared stare made him stop. He couldn’t afford to lose it right now. He needed to figure out a plan to get them out this. To keep Sam safe.

Sam flinched as one of the shucks launched itself once again at the car, the vehicle shuddering from the impact. The dog’s hellish face appeared momentarily in the passenger side window, red eyes glowing straight at Sam as it spattered the glass with a spray of foam-flecked saliva.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Fucking, Cujo…” he grunted under his breath.

“You know, in the book, the kid ends up dying,” Sam casually remarked.

“What?” Dean spun around to look at Sam.

Sam sighed. “In the Stephen King novel, Cujo keeps the kid and his mom trapped in the car for three days, and the kid dies of heatstroke. He baked to death.”

“We’re not gonna die,” Dean stated flatly, turning back to gaze out the windshield again.

Sam snorted. “Everybody dies,” he mumbled bitterly.

“Sam.” Dean didn’t even turn around this time, letting his voice convey his displeasure instead.

“Fine.” Sam lay back down on the seat, lips pursed in a mixture of frustration and anger. “So, what’s the plan, then?” he snapped.

Dean cleared his throat. “I’m working on it.”

Sam couldn’t help himself. “A cell phone would sure be nice right about now.”

Dean let out a low growl, the sound more ominous than the snarls the dogs outside the car were currently making.

“What?” Sam pressed innocently. “I’m just saying if we had a cell phone, we could –”

Dean cut him off, his temper rising. “Well, the cell’s in my jacket pocket, Sammy.” He motioned out the window, toward the shuck and what was left of his jacket. “How ‘bout you go get it for me? And hey, while you’re out there, maybe you can grab your shoe too, ‘cause I’d hate for you to be underdressed when our help arrives.”

Sam sat back up, bitch-face on display, and Dean offered up his own dry sneer in reply.

A faint chime of music interrupted the boys’ argument. Both stared at one another, angry glares morphing into puzzled frowns.

“What the hell is that?” Dean demanded.

They listened harder and then, as one, they turned their gazes towards the glove box. Dean gave an uncertain glance back at Sam, and then reached over and thumbed the glove box open. The tinkling music grew louder.

“Hey, a cell phone!” Sam excitedly announced.

Dean looked at Sam as if he was an idiot. “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” he said.

Sam blushed. “Well, it is,” he added sullenly.

They’d both forgotten their father kept a spare in the car for emergencies.

Dean reached into the glove box and grabbed the ringing phone, flipping it open and bringing it up to his ear in one move. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” Sam asked in a loud whisper, earning a heated glare from Dean.

“H-hey, Dad,” Dean stuttered, his voice quavering slightly.

Sam groaned and fell back down across the seat.

“Um, well…it’s kind of a funny story, actually…what? No sir, I wasn’t trying to be smart…yes sir…” Dean’s face fell. “Uh, we’re in a parking lot…5th and Carlisle, place called Recherche.”

“It’s prounounced ray-share-shay,” Sam piped up from the back seat. He missed the malevolent glower Dean threw at him.

“Well, see…” Dean cleared his throat, grimacing. “There’s these black shucks surrounding the car…huh? Um, yeah, shucks…five of ‘em. There were six but I – no, sir…yes, sir…uh, I don’t know…yessir, I remember, but – right, yessir, got it…”

With a loud, sad sigh, Dean tossed the cell phone onto the front seat beside him, and then slowly lowered his forehead down onto the steering wheel, ignoring the howling and snapping dogs jostling the car once again.

“Dad coming?” Sam inquired quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “The hunt turned out to be a bust, so he was able to come back early. Got into the motel just a few minutes ago, in fact.”

“He mad?”

Dean let out a snort. “He said he’s gonna kick both our sorry asses into next week. I’ll let you interpret that however you want, Sam.”

*****************

3:42 AM

The Azteca Inn

For once, their father broke his usual protocol when punishing both his kids together, by deciding to start off with Sam first instead of Dean.

While Dean was mildly grateful for the few extra minutes of reprieve, he most definitely didn’t appreciate having to listen to Sam’s beleaguered howls as their Dad’s heavy-handed smacks blistered his brother’s bare butt. Nor was he too thrilled when the yelps of mortified pain seemed to jump an octave as their father began using the hairbrush on Sam’s already rosy rear end.

He flinched as Sam’s voice cracked, his own butt muscles clenching in sympathy as he stood, nose pressed firmly to the wall, lest his dad find one more reason to hand out an ass beating to his twenty-year-old son.

The fact that, at his age, he was standing in a corner, like some recalcitrant toddler, docilely waiting for a spanking from his father, was utter humiliation to Dean. Twenty years old and he was going to get his butt whaled on for being too stupid to know better than to run headlong into a dangerous situation without the appropriate backup, weapons or research in place first. That he’d dragged his baby brother along and had managed to fuck up the Impala too were just added nails in his coffin.

Sam yelped loudly again and Dean flinched. The mental torture was almost worse than the spanking itself, Dean thought miserably. He hadn’t been over his father’s knee in years, and yet the memory of just about every ass whipping his dad had ever given him was still firmly impressed in Dean’s mind. They’d been painful, embarrassing and not something he’d wanted to repeat any time soon.

He briefly wondered if maybe he and Sam shouldn’t have taken their chances with the pack of wild dogs. At least it would have been a nobler and definitely less agonizing death.

Sam’s wretched shouts finally stopped, only to be replaced by quiet sniffles and hitched breath. This was followed closely by their Dad’s voice, low and whisky-warm now to Dean’s ear, comforting Sam, instead of lecturing angrily as he had been while delivering the spanking.

Dean knew that his father was also probably holding Sam and rubbing his brother’s back or gently kneading the nape of his neck, just as he always did when Sam was upset and needed to be calmed down.

Dean found the irony odd, yet comforting. How the same man could be so loud, angry and commanding one minute and then have the ability to soothe with a soft touch and gentle word the next.

“Dean.”

Dean slowly turned from the corner to face his father. He spared a quick glance over to the opposite bed, which Sam had already crawled into, stomach down, covers up over his head, and swallowed hard.

“C’mere, son,” his father said.

Dean squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and resignedly trudged over to meet his doom.

********************

1:09 PM the next day…

Dean shifted tiredly on the worn chrome and vinyl dinette chair, trying to ease the pressure off his sore butt by leaning forward onto his thighs. They didn’t seem to hurt as much as his ass, although his dad hadn’t spared that area, either. He’d been pretty pissed about whole black dog fiasco, and Dean couldn’t honestly blame the man.

Even so, Dean knew from experience that both he and Sam had been forgiven. The spankings had seen to that. In fact, they’d both awakened earlier to the delicious aroma of hash browns, pancakes and egg McMuffins, proof their father didn’t hold a grudge. He’d left earlier while Dean and Sam slept, to make arrangements for the Impala to be towed and had stopped to pick up some breakfast on his way back. The worst was over, Dean thought. Or maybe not.

He shifted again, only to find that the movement brought back the achy throb all over his butt he’d been trying to forget was still there. Dean couldn’t believe his rear emd felt so hot and unbelievably tender, even after eight hours of sleep.

He’d checked in the full-length bathroom mirror when he’d first gotten up, and there were a couple good-sized red marks across the fleshiest part of his rear end where his Dad’s hand and the dreaded hairbrush had marked a particular spot as their own. Over and over and over again. John hadn’t been merciful. Dean had been the ringleader in last night’s adventure and his ass had paid the price for it.

He winced, not from the memory, but from the misery of chafing against the seat of the chair with a sore butt. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have to deal with the after effects of a blistered tail. Not fun, he concluded. The hairbrush had really hurt, especially when the unforgiving wood had smacked down onto flesh that was already tender and raw from the thorough hand spanking his dad had given him first for maxing out the emergency credit card on the high-end tux rentals and quality fake IDs.

Dean had explained that while the items might not be considered “necessary” nor were they bought for “emergency” purposes really, the suits and IDs had most definitely been necessary overhead costs for the job. In retrospect, Dean supposed he might have saved himself a bit of extra pain had he just kept his mouth shut.

Either way, he thought, if asses could have headaches, then his was having the migraine of the year, and it wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. Two heavy-handed spankings in a row from John Winchester meant you didn’t sit easy for the next couple days, simple as that, forgiven or not.

Dean sighed. It was going to be a long day and he didn’t have anyone to blame but his own dumbass self, tempting as it was to blame the whole thing on Sam just for the hell of it.

They’d both been ordered to spend the day reading and researching on black shucks, also known as devil dogs. What didn’t kill you in the Winchester family was researched and written down in the journal. Speaking of which, to both Dean’s and Sam’s consternation, their father had also bought two shiny leather-bound notebooks this morning for them to start filling up and using as their own hunter’s journals.

Dean had thought he was done with homework when he’d graduated high school the year before, nevertheless his father was under a different assumption obviously, so Dean had accepted the journal with a sigh of resignation.

Thinking of his partner in crime, Dean snuck a glance at Sam, peering at his brother from the corner of his eye, careful to keep his main focus on the cryptozoology book in front of him. If Dad caught them disobeying again so soon…well. Dean didn’t even want to think about that.

The younger boy hadn’t fared much better the night before, despite having argued that he’d only been following Dean’s orders and therefore shouldn’t be punished. Yeah, that tact had never worked before and Dean was somewhat amused that Sam had even dragged it out last night as a means of defense when their father had picked up the hairbrush to start in on Sam’s butt.

Dean watched as Sam squirmed and flinched, reaching behind him every few minutes to palm his aching butt, while with his other hand dutifully flipping the pages of the book on folklore and myths that he was studying. The young boy let out a loud sigh and shifted once again in his seat, tucking his right leg up under his left thigh with a grimace, in an effort to take some pressure off his very sore bottom. From the dejected look on Sam’s face, it didn’t look like it worked very well.

Dean could have told him that, saved him the effort maybe. Because he knew that every time he moved, even a little, or stood up, every time his muscles had to be in motion, Dean felt it and he knew Sam did too. The dull ache was constant, underlying each and every movement he made, reminding him never to be so stupid again.

“Hey, why don’t you two take a break,” John said, looking up from his own journal with a tired half-smile.

Sam’s eyes snapped up from the book in front of him, face full of cautious hope. “Really?” he questioned.

John’s smile widened. “Yeah, no sense in you two going blind from non-stop reading.” He nodded toward his wallet over on the dresser across the room. “Why don’t you grab a card out of there and order us a pizza.”

Sam eagerly bounded up from the kitchenette chair, quickly stifling a groan of pain when his rear end balked at the sudden move. He rubbed at the aching part as he made his way over to the dresser and the phone, moving a bit slower this time.

Dean continued to pore over the pages of the book on the table in front of him until his father reached over and gently closed it. Dean didn’t look up right away, just stared down at the book as if it were still open.

John tented his fingers, leaning his elbows on the table as he studied his oldest child.

“You know I’ve already forgiven you, Dean,” he said quietly. “As reckless and as dangerous as what you did was, I understand you thought you were helping me out, even if it meant disobeying orders.”

Dean nodded, eyes still on the book.

John sighed. “You plan on forgiving yourself any time soon?” he asked.

Dean shrugged.

“Do I have to make that an order?”

Dean finally looked at his father, a wry grin ghosting over his lips despite his eyes remaining neutral.

John returned the attempted smile. “So, you up to spending some time in Sioux City?”

“Uncle Bobby’s?” Dean asked, surprised, and then his face fell. “You dropping me and Sammy off to get us out of your hair, I guess.”

John shook his head. “No, we need someplace to work on the Impala, and Singer doesn’t charge for the use of his shop,” he replied. “I already called him and he’s on his way with the tow truck.”

Dean had the grace to blush over his inaccurate assumption. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“Sorry? For what? What’d you do now?” Sam accused, scowling, as he carefully took his seat at the table.

John was quick to nip the potential argument in the bud. “He hasn’t done anything, Sam. I was just mentioning to your brother that I’ve decided we’ll be spending some time at Bobby’s place for a while. At least until Dean and I can get the Impala up to snuff again.”

“Oh,” Sam replied. He brightened. “I don’t have to help with that, do I?”

John arched a brow at his youngest. “You think you’re getting off scot-free on this, you better think again, bud. You’ll be cataloging all the new books Bobby’s got in since the last time we were there, as well as helping out with any odd jobs he gives you to do.”

John smiled when Sam’s face screwed up into a massive pout. “You know you’re face is gonna freeze that way,” he gently teased.

“Daaad!” Sam whined, and John reached over to tousle the boy’s hair.

“You two can’t seem to stay put and out of trouble unless I keep you busy,” John stated. “So, a couple weeks at Singer’s ought to do the trick.” He smirked, winking at Sam. “Yup. You boys are nothing but trouble,” he teased, and chuckled at the indignant look Sam gave him.

There was a knock on the door.

“Pizza’s here!” Dean happily announced.

Remembering Sam’s earlier mistake at jumping up too quickly, Dean cautiously slid off his chair to answer the door as Sam and his father watched in amusement.

Dean opened the door, the warm greasy smell of pepperoni filling his nostrils and bringing a wide grin to his face. Nothing like an extra-large loaded pizza to take one’s mind off one’s troubles…and one’s sore ass, he cheerfully decided.